A/N: A big thank you, as always, to the anonymous reviewers (both for this chapter and the last - sorry I didn't see that one in time to thank you last week). Your comments were truly thoughtful and kind. Hopefully you won't be left hanging too long; the resolution is not too far off!

Chapter 19: Hearts made weak by time and fate, but strong in will - part I

2 September, 1925

He had left a note on his bedside table, because even though he didn't like it, there were people now who cared about where he was at all times of the day, and leaving his room before dawn entailed that none of those people would see him, and if they didn't, then chances were they would worry tremendously – which could very well result in a search party being sent after him. The need to write a note, of course, did not imply that he had to be too specific regarding his whereabouts, so long as he promised to be back for lunch.

He had woken up a little before four, and though it had become the norm for him to sleep so little, that morning he had felt incapable of waiting until it was time to get up, staring at his bedroom walls and thinking of Edith. Because that was all he had been able to do in the past few weeks – except for when his mind was too preoccupied with the estate or the mines (he had yet to properly start looking for a replacement for Mr Carr precisely because he needed to keep his mind busy). He had decided that he wanted to do something that would numb his body, reduce it to a tired mass of limbs, in the hopes that that would be enough for his brain to shut down. For that reason, he had decided that the best activity he could have picked was horse riding. He hadn't been on the back of a horse in a while, now, and since he had inherited the stables alongside the rest of Brancaster Castle, it occurred to him that it was akin to a sacrilege that he shouldn't make use of its horses.

Despite the fact that it was still summer, Bertie had discovered at his own expense that at such an early hour of the morning, his bedroom could be rather cold – it didn't help that the room was bigger than any bedroom he had ever had occasion to sleep in. When first he had moved in, he had found it a bit ridiculous that, in spite of its size, Bertie was still required to leave his clothes in the adjoining dressing room, and had actually considered moving into the smaller room to sleep as well; after all, the bed was there. Of course, the idea hadn't made it past his brain, for he knew that while his unwillingness to adapt completely to his role might look endearing still, some things would not entirely be accepted – sleeping in the dressing room when there was no one else in the main bedroom to boot him out was one of those.

The major problem with his bedroom, of course, had been its size; Bertie looked at its empty spaces and found within them the voids that had crept into his life and inhabited it, leaving him not just discontented, but utterly dissatisfied with the direction he had been set to. In an attempt to make his bedroom less inhospitable, he had brought in some paintings and some photographs. The walls had been bare and cold before, despite their warm and relaxing shade, and so he had selected a handful of landscape paintings – which he largely preferred to family portraits – to cover them. He had even reserved a spot for one of Peter's creations, a view of the shore of Tangiers, for it reminded Bertie of his cousin. For the bedside table and the vanity – which had remained largely an ornamental piece of furniture since Peter's mother had died, nearly thirty years before – he had selected various photographs. On his bedside table, he had placed the one Peter had brought with him to Tangiers of the two of them – looking at it every morning when he woke up and every night before he went to sleep served to Bertie as a reminder of the affection that had run between the two of them, and of the support he felt Peter would have given Bertie in his role. The vanity table housed a rather larger collection, with five photographs arranged in a simil-semi circle. On one end was a picture of Bertie with his Army comrades before the War had started, which served as a stark reminder of all the people who had died. On the other end, there was a photograph taken at George's Christening, with him holding the toddler, and the rest of the Armstrong family huddled around him. The two pictures each side of those two were of his parents, one taken on their wedding day, and the other with Mother holding a very young Bertie on her knees as Father stood behind them. Taking centre stage was a picture of the two branches of the Pelham family; Cousin William and his wife, Cousin Frances, were each putting a hand on one of Bertie's shoulders, whereas Father and Mother had done the same with Peter. Bertie still remembered vividly the day that photograph had been taken, even though he had only been seven at the time. It had been in honour of Peter's ninth birthday, when the boy had requested a private playdate with Bertie as his birthday present (knowing he would still receive a plethora of other ones, in spite of his proclamation of only needing that to be content), and they had spent the whole day together having fun around the castle grounds. Cousin William and Father had taken them out to ride on ponies, and neither Peter nor Bertie had fallen off, even though they had been less than stellar riders at the time. It was sad to think that all that remained of that portrait were Bertie and his mother, and the memories they held of that day. Bertie never looked at the bedside table on the unoccupied side of the bed, for though it lay empty, whenever he did, he pictured on it a photograph of Edith and himself (possibly with Marigold between them).

In the darkness of the early hours of the morning, however, none of those pictures had been visible, and Bertie had simply gotten out of bed, thrown his nightgown on, worn his slippers and gone to the dressing room to find his riding attire. He hadn't had occasion to wear it out a lot, since he hadn't ridden much in the past few years, but it felt as comfortable on him as it had when he had bought it years before. He had worn the first pair of shoes that he had managed to find and had quickly headed downstairs to the service rooms, where he had needed to pick up his riding boots and the keys to the stables. He had made the trip hastily because he had feared that someone would soon wake up to do the fires, and he hadn't wanted to have to stop and explain himself. The note had been left for a reason, after all.

When he arrived at the stables, he only had to pick a horse that would suit him, and his heart settled on Skamandros, a dark bay stallion, that appeared to be black in the scant lightning, with white markings. Bertie knew him to be a stayer, as was evidenced by his height and slim build, which served Bertie's purpose fitly because he intended to ride for a long time, and hopefully at a decent speed as well. Peter had named the horse, insisting on the Ancient Greek variant of the name to emphasise its meaning. He hadn't wanted it to be dubious whether the stallion had been named after the river of Troy, one of the sons of Pan, or any of the many people and horses who had borne the name of Xanthos. Peter had believed the horse fast and unpredictable like a river's water, and Skamandros had proven his worth by winning two races in his prime. Now, by no means old, the horse had been retired, left at Brancaster's stables, where he could enjoy some peace and tranquillity while he sired, hopefully, future champions.

Though he knew the horse didn't recognise him as his owner, and so he was confident that he would be able to saddle him without any violent opposition. He approached him, and noticed that the horse was one of the few who didn't react with agitation to his presence; before thinking of saddling him, he patted him gently on the muzzle, until Skamandros came forward and Bertie could reach his neck. He took the curry comb that had been placed within easy reach, and started to curry the horse until it became evident that Skamandros would let him in his enclosure. Bertie took great care in making sure his cleaning was thorough, and, after his currying, used the horse brush to make the coat shiny. When he finally brought him out, Skamandros' form reflected the first rays of the sun as it climbed over the horizon.

Mindful of the relative lack of lighting, Bertie started his ride at a slow pace, but soon he felt Skamandros rebel beneath him, and so allowed the stallion to gain a bit of speed, until he was trotting. There was something different about seeing Brancaster in the first light of day, on horseback. Bertie felt, for the first time since he had become Marquess of Hexham, like he could actually fulfil his role. The fields that expanded at his feet appeared conquerable, at last, and as Skamandros led him forward, with each step Bertie felt like the stallion's hooves were marking Bertie's territory. Bertie didn't want or need it, obviously, but if he had to own it, then he had better seize it. He waited for a half hour at best, just until he trusted the horse's eyes as well as his own to see any treacherous hole in the ground, before he leaned down on Skamandros' back and set him to a gallop. The horse ran, free as the wind that gusted against Bertie's face, taking sudden turns and jumps when the land required it of him and leading Bertie more than Bertie was leading him. The single blades of grass soon blurred together to create a sea of green, which made Bertie feel like he was running on water, his horse flying like Pegasus on wings of air and freedom. They eventually reached the farms, where the day had already begun in earnest for the farmers. But he didn't take in anyone or anything, having room in his mind only for the growing sensation of ascendancy.

By the time Skamandros was tired enough to slow down his pace into a trot, Bertie was sure he couldn't have gotten further from the Castle had he taken his car for a spin. Feeling like he still wanted to be alone – because for the first time in weeks his mind was not cast into a cloud of dysphoria from whence he couldn't see beyond all the bleakness that regulated his vision of the future, and he thought that he might actually begin to think, to find a solution – he took a scenic route around the property. Skamandros appeared to enjoy the time outside, and Bertie thought the stallion might have actually been missing Peter, who was likely the only person who had bothered to take him out for a proper ride.

Bertie was finally resolved to find a way to get Edith back. He was miserable and despondent, to the point where he thought the staff was much happier to serve their guests than Bertie himself, and where he was certain his mother's indulgence wouldn't last much longer. And whatever he liked to pretend, this was not a way to live. He either decided to overcome his anguish by getting over Edith, or he needed to stop feeling sorry for himself and start placing his heart and his pride on the line, and fight for what he really wanted. Had he chosen a different horse that morning, Bertie might have chosen the former, but Skamandros had convinced him to strive for the latter. "Thank you, boy," he said as he patted his neck. "I'll take you out more frequently from now on, I promise."

By the time Bertie had reached the stables again, the stablemaster, Mr Dodd, had already begun his work. Someone from the Castle must have warned him of Bertie's message, because he himself certainly hadn't, but the man tipped his hat at Bertie and greeted him politely, much unlike a man worried for the loss of one of his stallions. Mr Dodd took Skamandros himself and promised Bertie to take good care of him, leaving his previous occupation to one of the stable hands.

Bertie, who was very tired and even more dirty, decided to let him to his work and headed through the service entrance to his own quarters. He didn't wish to be seen by the guests, who certainly weren't shooting on the day, and he had even less of an inclination to damage any of the carpets by staining them with mud.

Edward, who was the only footman downstairs, helped him minimise the damage by bringing a selection of towels to him, which Bertie used to dry the fresh mud which was still on his jodhpurs, and by carrying his dirty boots inside. Bertie padded inside on his socked feet, and asked Edward, in his own time, to bring Bertie's shoes back to his dressing room, and to let Mrs Brennan know that he was back and would be ready for lunch in a little over half an hour – it was the first time in weeks that Bertie had a bit of an appetite. Using the service stairs, he made his way to his room, and ran himself a warm bath, and, when he undressed, he made sure that none of his clothes were in danger of staining any surface by placing them inside a wicker basket that was meant for his dirty laundry.

When he finally went downstairs, he crossed Edward's path again. "Mrs Pelham is waiting for you in the library, Milord. And Mrs Brennan was well on her way to having lunch ready."

"Thank you, Edward, and don't worry about the shoes if you don't have enough time. I won't need them today. You can think about them after you have had your own lunch."

"Very well, Milord." Edward nodded once and disappeared quickly down the corridor.

Bertie made his way to the library, even though he had originally thought of retreating to his study to get some work done. He knew better than to think that his mother would accept seeing him at lunch. If Edward had told him she was in the library waiting for him, it meant that she had impressed on the footman the notion that that's where Bertie ought to be the second he was ready to see someone. He rather thought sometimes his mother didn't like the staff because they were all on Bertie's side rather than hers even more than because they had been Peter's legacy to Brancaster.

When he entered the library, he found his mother ready for him; she had the look of someone wholly displeased and spoiling for a fight. He would have to struggle even to get a word in edgewise.

"Where have you been?"

Hello to you too, Mother. I am well, how are you faring today? He knew better than to try his hand at being sarcastic or dismissive of her obvious anger, but still the words begged to be released from his mouth, and he had to make an effort not to give into temptation. "I have ridden around the estate. It had been a while since I had allowed myself the pleasure of doing it, and it was going to be a slow day, so I thought it the best occasion."

"Before you even had breakfast?" She demanded sceptically.

"I didn't want to risk running into our guests, and I thought the early hours of the morning would be the perfect time to get away unnoticed." He didn't specify the time at which he had left, trusting whoever had taken it upon themselves to alert his mother not to have told her that they had received a note rather than actually seen him.

"I thought guests weren't going to be a bother."

"Indeed, they're not. It's not a bother to wake up a little earlier to go out of the door, Mother. And I could have prepared something for breakfast had I wished it."

"Your eating habits have not escaped my notice, rest assured," she said accusingly. It was only through years of experience that Bertie managed not to buckle under the sharpness of her look. "Bertie," his mother said when he didn't respond. "I'm worried about you. You've been in a gloom for much longer than is normal, and I know for a fact whatever this is, it does not concern Peter's death. You've mourned for him, I know that much, and though you're not happy that he's gone, whatever is ailing you has nothing to do with him. Not anymore." Bertie neither refuted nor acknowledged the statement. "Does it have something to do with Lady Edith and the reason why she hasn't been up here to meet me yet?"

"I'm going to London soon," Bertie said, resolutely not wishing to speak about Edith.

She sighed. "When?"

"Maybe tomorrow, or the day after. I'll stay for a couple of days at least. Maybe more."

"I hope you haven't forgotten about the dinner we have planned for Monday next."

He had, of course, forgotten about the dinner. Indeed, he had only just remembered that the current renters were going to leave after lunch, though it explained why Edward had been so hurried all morning. "I'll be back for it, don't worry, but then I might have to go back again to London. I'm going to stay for a week or so, I think. But I'm not sure."

"Bertie –"

Whatever his mother would have liked to say was stopped by a rapid knock on the door and Hugh's face, which appeared somewhat flustered. Clearly, he had had to run to reach him. "Apologies for interrupting, Your Lordship. Only there's a phone call for you from Lady Mary Talbot, and we're in the middle of serving luncheon."

"Did you tell her I was available?"

"No, Milord, I still didn't know you were back, so I told her I was going to look for you. I only met Edward while I was half-way to your bedroom, and from there I thought it best to come here rather than going back to tell Lady Mary of your presence." Bertie nodded, and the grimness of his thoughts must have reflected on his face because his mother suddenly looked perplexed. "Your Lordship? Should I tell the Lady you are not in?"

"No," Bertie decided eventually. "Sorry, Hugh, you can go back to the dining room, I'll deal with Lady Mary myself." He followed the footman out the door, leaving his mother exasperated, no doubt.

The papers had alerted him to the fact that Lady Mary had married Henry Talbot, and though he had had no true feelings on the matter, he had wished Henry all the good luck in the world; he might not have liked the woman whom Henry had chosen to be his wife, but that didn't mean he wished Henry not to find happiness with her. If this call had arrived at all, it was probably because Henry had a positive influence on the insufferable woman, who was so full of herself Bertie thought she had the potential to raise more castles in the sky about her own self-importance than all other people he had ever met combined. He wasn't about to forgive her, of course, though he knew his own mistakes in the break with Edith had been graver than hers, but he was going to pay her the respect of at the very least listening to what she had to say; whatever reason – or whoever – had prompted her to call him, he wasn't going to renege his good manners because of her. Besides, a small part of him was worried that something might have happened to Edith, and he would need to know if it were so.

"Lady Mary," he begun, as soon as the phone was in his hands. "You wish to speak to me."

"Ah. You were there, after all."

He could picture her at that moment, trying to make the conversation as pleasant as possible by pretending nothing at all was wrong. Well, he might be courteous, but he would be damned before he stooped to her level again. He had made that mistake once, and it had cost him the love of his life. He didn't speak.

"Well," she said, capitulating to his silence. "I'm calling to say Edith will be in London for a few days, and I think you two ought to see each other."

"By the fact that it is you who is calling me, rather than Edith, I presume your sister is not privy to this particular plan of yours."

He heard the swallow, and the deep sigh. "She won't show up if I tell her whom it is she is going to meet, but I can make sure Aunt Rosamund convinces her to go wherever you want her to go, as long as it's somewhere nice."

Bertie wanted nothing more than to say yes. It was the answer to all of his problems; he had wanted to find a way to see Edith, and this one would definitely work better than any other plan he had come up with (it was a fair deal more reasonable than showing up at the offices of The Sketch or outside her flat, at any rate, and it did incur less of a chance of making him look like a man who should be committed than sending Yearnshire to King's Cross until she showed up on her way from Downton), but a part of him was still afraid of trusting his happiness to someone like Lady Mary.

"Why would you do this, exactly, Lady Mary?"

"Because she's my sister. And you can call me Mary."

"And was she not your sister that morning, as well, Mary?"

She huffed on the other side of the line. "Look, do you want to see her or not?"

"Tell your Aunt there will be a reservation at The Ritz in her name for tonight."

"I'll arrange the reservation myself," she said with finality.

He didn't like the idea of having to be indebted to Mary, of all people, but he resigned himself to the fact that she was bent on making herself responsible for this meeting. "Goodbye, Mary." He placed the phone down before she had a chance to answer. He didn't want to have further cause to antagonise her, or for her to antagonise him.

When he went back to the library and told his mother he was leaving for London immediately, she didn't even pretend to be anything else but worried. She didn't ask about his intentions for lunch, though, which he counted as a win.